Thomas' internal monologue on 'growing older'
by mentalillusions
Summary: Thomas thinks about getting older. One-shot.


**A/N: So, I wrote a one-shot thing. I might make some more of these, but idk. It's written a conversational sort of style, although I fear I've made him talk a bit like I talk? But then again it's a stream of conciousness so surely he's bound to be a bit rambly. Also it's first person and almost never write first person, but yeah, I'm going to stop talking now. Let me know if you like it or not or whatever? oh and sorry for any mistakes. **

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I pull my heavy body out of bed. God, I feel like lead. I really must have over done it last night in the pub with Jimmy. I'm pretty sure I used to be able to handle my alcohol better, or maybe it's just been a while since I've gotten that drunk. I haven't felt this hung over in-in, well since a long while. My feet land with a _thud _as they hit the cold floorboards, and I groggily make my way over to my vanity table. I wince as I stare back at the tired expression of a man who, to me, is barely recognisable as myself. Wincing at the sorry sight I run my hands across my face, brushing the hair out of my eyes. It seems like only yesterday I was a young man with bright eyes and a happy smile-okay, well maybe not the happy smile, but you get the picture. Bloody hell I really do look gross this morning; my skin looks grey and my eyes look sunken in and tired-although, I fear I've been looking like this for a while, and it only seems more noticeable because I'm so unbelievably tired. I guess I'm just growing older, but I don't like it. Not one bit. Everyday I pray no one will notice-well maybe not everyday, I mean that's a bit of an over exaggeration-but on those days when it just seems worse, like I've aged ten years during my sleep, those days; those days I hope no one will mention it. Stupidly, I somehow thought I'd always be young and beautiful-okay, just young then, I always knew I'd be beautiful, I mean, look at me, it's not like I'm ever going to be ugly like-like-I don't know-Alfred, or say O'Brien. At least I don't look like her. God, imagine me with her hair!

I shake my head quickly to dispel these worrisome thoughts. I suppose the silver lining to all this is that I don't have a curly fringe-not that I'd ever have a curly fringe-wait that's not a silver lining at all if it'd never happen because I'm not a woman. Oh great, so there's no silver lining at all.

Christ, I need a smoke.

Groggily, I pull my undershirt off my head and toss it on the floor. I wouldn't normally be untidy but-oh God my head-I'm feeling too sick to care. I press a hand over my eyes before moving my hands down to slip off my pyjama bottoms. For a moment I just stare down and look at myself. I think I look pretty great-not as great as ten years ago-but still pretty great. I'm not balding or I don't know, say, okay I can't think of another, but you get the idea.

I run my hands along my bare torso, the mass of dark hair across my chest and stomach tickling the palm of my hand. The other day O'Brien had the nerve to suggest I was fat. _Me_, fat! Yes, I admit, maybe, I'm not in the same shape I was in ten years ago, but for Christ's sake, that was a decade ago. We can't stay the same forever. I'm merely taking the natural course of growing older. I mean that bitch is hardly skinny herself, but she's always been that way; I don't see why anyone should feel the need to only bring up a change in someone's appearance, when others can be a bit on the heavy side and no one ever says anything (okay, well maybe I've made the odd fat Bates joke. But then again that's Bates, and no one-well at least not me-gives a toss about him). Sometimes, I guess I feel subconscious, but I quickly bury these feelings down. I can't let them know it gets to me. I don't even want my own mind to know I hurt. Still, I fear that they will notice all the little imperfections which I have come to notice, and I guess, deep down, it scares me.

I've always had my looks, I rely on them; when to the rest of the world it seems I'm rotten on the inside, I've always know that the outside looks fresh. Maybe appearance isn't the best thing to pride myself on, but I do. It helps me get what I want. Every since I was a very young man I've known that I'll probably never get real love-not in the relationship way, and this last year has just been proof of that-so I need my looks to draw men in so I can get a good fuck when I want one. But if my looks are gone (not that they ever will be, well at least I hope not); really just the thought that they might go-to me it seems the sign that I will well and truly be forever alone-if I walk into a bar, of course the rich man is going to pick the youngest, best model. But where does that leave me? Well, no where I guess. Not that I've ever really been somewhere, well at least not somewhere significant that is; sure I've had flings but never anything real. And as I grow older, I feel that silly dream of finding someone dying a little more each day. And that, in all honesty, terrifies me; although, I'd never admit that to anyone, ever.

Gingerly, my eyes still adjusting to the light, I pick up my comb and start to part my hair. I'm definitely glad I still have nice hair. Just as I'm about to reach for the pot of pomade on the vanity, I notice something, and curse myself for never noticing before. Leaning forward to get a better look in the mirror, I see the beginnings of a few grey hairs at the root.

Great. Wonderful. That's just what I need.

Growing older is certainly weird, and especially at this age. All around me I see young men: visiting guests whose money has kept them appearing in a state of youth; I see Jimmy and Alfred (well maybe not Alfred, I wouldn't exactly class him as a man, and he'll never be someone I'm jealous of) working as footmen, hired (again, not Alfred) because they are young and attractive for the family to look at whilst they drink their tea (God, Alfred should have never been hired).

But then, on the other side of things, is the _actual_ old men, Carson, Lord Grantham-hm I can't think of anyone else, oh what about Dr Clarkson? Yes that will do-and I look at both these groups and realise I fit into neither, no longer am I young and full of vitality, but I certainly do not put myself in the old man category, even though that's where it seems society wants me to go, despite me being nowhere near ready. How exactly can I be a _'young-old man'_, that doesn't even make any sense? But I guess that's what I'm supposed to be. Even if I don't want to be it. But I understand, I really do, that the young grow old, and the already old fall into a grave; it's just the way of the world. I have nothing wrong with moving into the mature category, I just don't want to be old. I seem to constantly be battling myself on the debate of what I actually want. I want to be professionally taken seriously, that's why I took up a more adult hair style, because I want to fit the role I'm playing, but still, at the same time, I don't want to be some ancient bag of bones. Why can't I just be something in between?

But as I stare, mouth agape, at the start of my newly greying hair, I suppose, begrudgingly, I see that I have to grow up, whether I like it or not; I just don't have a choice.


End file.
